Feminism and literature

From the Pink and Yellow Books

<epigraph>
					<p>The context of my writing is the performance situation which I set up at
						Artists' Space, the Leo Castelli Gallery, and the Whitney Downtown, where a
						video camera on a tripod behind me instantaneously transmitted the image of
						the letters, words, sentences as they were written to a video monitor across
						the room. The pink book was written in anticipation of performing, the
						yellow book is one-third performance and the blue and sub sequent books
						consist only and totally of material written in performance.</p>
				</epigraph>
				<div>
					<head>Pink Book</head>
					<p>Beginning at the beginning. Which is rock bottom. To be an artist who has not
						made any art for two years is very depressing. I have been very happy and
						absorbed. I had two perfect little bodies come out of my body. My body was
						huge and soft and full of milk. I held and nursed and fondled and fed and
						dressed and undressed and talked to and listened to my babies in an unending
						orgy of interdependence. Since Mira and Bran were born I have had no time to
						myself except sleep. But now I have been hired by Carl Andre to do this job
						of sitting for three hours a day in an old green space with a sign eight
						feet from my right eye about possibilities for art production.... So Carl is
						unwittingly my first patron (this work), my inspiration and my competition.
						My materials were paper and pen, now I have a typewriter here so that what I
						am doing now is part typing what I have already written and part writing now
						and it all has to do with the future. My economic resources are not vast,
						but neither are my needs. I figure I need $500 a month to support myself and
						half of two children which works out to $8.20 an hour if I work three hours
						a day five days a week which is all I want to spare right now from my
						children. The economic resource I have right now from this job is really
						time. The rest is all my subjective characteristics which will be manifest
						in the work which is to write whatever I am thinking publicly so that it can
						be simultaneously read. I am not being particularly clear, but this is the
						boring part where I am trying to elicit interest and support and
						collaboration or patronage or whatever. Already I feel a need to rewrite the
						beginning. This work is writing about this work.</p>
					<p>Writing about this work is this work. I am keeping my private journal
						publicly. I am the Delphic oracle. I am studying to be a shopping-bag lady.
						I am redefining art. I want to be in a public room with a typewriter and
						some machinery, maybe video, that could shoot a written page of 8½ by 11"
						paper and project the image of it on a wall or screen, but so it is easily
						legible. The room is somewhat dark except for a good light on my typewriter.
						I am writing down whatever I am thinking as fast and completely and well as
						I can. People come in and watch and read. There is a xerox machine somewhere
						so that xeroxes of pages may be made. I want to find out what and how I
						think. I want the publicness of it to interact with the process of finding
						out. I like using machines although I am not technically proficient and
						comfortable with them because they and art are the two metaphors for the
						mind that I am always bumping up against ... It isn't terror. It isn't joy.
						It's some sort of physical sensation which starts from the very top of my
						head and ripples down to my buttocks since I'm sitting. If I were standing
						it would ripple to my feet and make my insteps tingle. I'm stoned. If I
						thought it were terror I would be terrified. If I thought it were joy I
						might be still and meditative and happy, but that is different from this
						absorbed state of working that I am in. This is where there is that
						possibility of inarticulableness, either stoned or orgasming or making or
						con templating art or mystical experiences. There is the temptation of
						feigning speechlessness because of fearing the inadequacy of words. It can't
						be the words that are at fault, but my laziness.</p>
					<p>Outside there is a New York sirocco blowing hot restless moving air all
						around my legs and hair. It's exciting but disturbing since I'm wearing only
						a light short cotton dress and a pair of under pants. A pair of underpants
						is only one thing unlike a pair of mittens. I feel naked and lustful and
						agitated. I just thought about Gertrude Stein and Jill Johnston as heroines,
						but I didn't like to think it because it broke my other train of thought.
						I'd rather stay physical today. While digging in my purse for cigarettes (a
						man wouldn't have written that) I found a three-inch high light gray plastic
						horse, missing its flowing tail but complete with flowing darker mane and
						red indented nostrils and lips, that belongs to my children. Well, I bought
						it for them but it's questionable if children actually own things at all....
						I remember Lambie, a big soft stuffed white lamb I slept with, and later
						used to dust with my mother's perfumed talcum powder to make him white
						again. Funny that I thought he was male. I wonder when I started dividing
						the world that way and what arbitrary rules did I make up in unknown gender
						cases like toy animals and why.</p>
					<p>I did write a list of the first hundred words the babies spoke, but I haven't
						written them a journal of their daily activities. That's their bedtime story
						every night anyway so I suppose I could tape it and save it for them for
						eternity. “Once upon a time there was a little boy named Bran and a little
						girl named Mira and this morning they woke up very early and woke up their
						mommy and daddy and had eggs for breakfast and...." Every once in a while I
						get conscious of switching the order girl/boy, boy/girl, every alternate
						night, but often slide back to Bran/Mira several nights in a row. I even
						started telling it “Once upon a time there were two children, one named Mira
						and one named Bran... so that there wouldn't even be the boy/girl
						differentiation at all, but I'm afraid that they and I are already
						conditioned that way. Bran is masculine and Mira is feminine and they get
						more and more different every day. I hope that Mira won't hate me when she
						grows up. I hope that all the femininity that I have inevitably inculcated
						in her will be perceived as positive and valuable instead of the degrading
						powerlessness I have often been made to feel. The only way I can attempt to
						assure that is to make sure she grows up with good images of female power
						surrounding her, starting with my own self. And that means not totally
						answering her current demands of all my time and affection and attention so
						that I can go out and get myself powerful and make sure that I feel it and
						feel good about it. Which is difficult to do.</p>
					<p>Which I'm not pretending to do for her sake, but knowing that it is also for
						her makes me stronger. It's for Bran too but not as empathetically. For a
						long time I was taught to see my mother, and she was being convinced to see
						herself, as a mean, castrating, frigid, evil bitch. I don't blame her for
						that, but I would blame myself if I let Mira suffer the same thing. She will
						have to suffer something else. Some new pattern. In my mother's family one
						only talks about the women, at least as far back as the civil war, because
						they were the interesting ones and/or they lived longer.</p>
					<p>Anyway it is the female line that is traced. I read a diary of my mother's
						mother's mother's mother who was a southern belle named Emma Munnerlin,
						daughter of a rice plantation and slave owner, who married Charles Stocking,
						a yankee whose family had been long settled in the Connecticut River valley.
						He made a small fortune and then the civil war broke out and his brothers
							<pb n="94"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_094.jpg"
						/> and cousins were all fighting for the union. He got wiped out financially
						and went catatonic for a while and then just psychotically morbid and
						depressed and afunctional. Emma's brothers and father were killed and ruined
						so she had to move north with two infant daughters and a crazy husband and
						support every body by giving french and music lessons to the local yankee
						daughters. She didn't complain in her diaries and they are not too exciting
						to read unless you already know the story and empathize a lot. She had been
						brought up with a personal slave companion, a girl a little older than
						herself, who brushed her long hair for her every morning and every night.
						They must have started out like twins or best friends or lovers and been
						trained to accept their difference in status. Her slave would have been the
						real child of the black woman who suckled her and the reason the woman was
						still full of milk for the little white baby. It is easier to imagine the
						rage that the black baby girl woman might have felt but probably didn't than
						to understand what subtle unconscious mixtures of interdependence and guilt
						and affection and tyranny Emma might have felt. Either way there's no record
						of it. Only imaginings based on experience or literature or movies. One of
						my best friends throughout high school was a very brilliant, angry, tricky
						and unfathomable black girl, one of the three or four blacks in the whole
						hypocritical elitist bourgeois school. I am a complex and conscious racist.
						I wish I weren't a racist at all, but l am a racist and a sexist and would
						probably be a capitalist imperialist if I had the chance. Fighting those
						things personally can either give or take away the strength to fight them on
						a political level....</p>
					<p>When Eva Hesse died, some friends of mine were moving into her place on the
						Bowery, and they knew how poor I was, and they said I could have any of the
						materials I could salvage from the heaps on the floor. I took inks and
						charcoals and water color sets and oilpaints and cords and tubing and
						strings and bits of rubber and everything. I figured it might be magic and I
						needed all the money I was making (working for a real estate agent in
						Brooklyn) for food anyway. I can never have too many bottles of
						half-evaporated foul-smelling multicolored Higgins ink and little wads of
						used art gum erasers. I carry it all with me from studio to studio. First to
						the 5th floor of 323 Greenwich St, then to Mulberry St, then to the country,
						then to the 4th floor of 323 Greenwich St, then to 319 Greenwich St. It
						comes in handy. Except for the horrid little nose masks for working with
						plastic.</p>
					<p>One time I used a whole lot of that material plus other stuff to make work in
						the woods. I was reading a lot about shamanism at the time and, while
						thinking, I would spend all day in the woods, one late summer into fall,
						making things from painted strings and painted wood and the trees that were
						there and the rocks and a brook and rubber slingshots and the works were
						visible enough to be photographed but invisible enough to be magical traps.
						Nobody ever saw them except the man I lived with and the man who used to own
						the woods and still walked his dogs there and perhaps an occasional hunter.
						I always wore red when I worked so I wouldn't be shot at. And big rubber
						boots so the copperheads and rattlesnakes wouldn't bite me. One weekend some
						people were coming to visit. A critic and a painter. I was very excited
						because I wanted them to come see my work. I worked hard on Friday afternoon
						in the woods (after cleaning the house and shopping and making beds etc.).
						They arrived for supper and it was dark. I woke early Saturday morning from
						excitement and anxiety and went walking to the woods to see everything once
						more alone before it became public and found everything I had done wantonly
						destroyed and stolen and dragged away and gone. This art is writing about
						this art.</p>
					<p>Writing about this art is this art. I love grammar but I don't understand its
						relation to meaning. If thoughts are born in words, as words, then the
						grammar is part of their initial existence. If thoughts are born not words,
						then the words come next and then the grammar is invented for them that puts
						them in the best order. My daughter has just invented or discovered a
						sentence that she says all the time which is the question “What is the
						-doing? -being any noun she knows, mommy, truck, daddy, brother, cookie,
						kitty, chair, table, toy, etc. I answer the question as best I can when it
						refers to anything capable of action (doing) but I get confused by "what is
						the cookie doing?" Sometimes I just say "it is" or "it is being a cookie" or
						'the cookie is sitting on the chair where Mira left it, waiting for Mira to
						hurry up and eat it before Poppy or Bran does" or "I don't know, Mira, what
						is the cookie doing?" to which she replies "UH." She has three answers to
						the kind of questions that I don't know the answers to myself, No, Yes, and
						uh. It is not grammar, anyway, which is only a structure, but the enormous
						number of words and then the mathematical infinity of combining any two,
						three, seven, twenty-four, thirty-three of them in one sentence that
						staggers the imagination....</p>
					<p>I've been thinking about Suzanne Harris' work <title>Locus Up.</title> It is
						experientially describable as a saint approaching death. It is made of sand
						and stucco walls. Suzanne looks to me like a combination of Joan of Arc and
						Saint Sebastian by various renaissance masters. I think she is very
						beautiful. That may not be relevant but I wrote it anyway. The saint
						approaches her death. She walks slowly in the sandy desert and the horizon
						melts away as the sand rises symmetrically on either side of her progress.
						She won't look back which is the only way to see the world and people and
						life she is leaving behind. She looks straight ahead at a narrow dark
						doorway cut into the mound of sand ahead. Inside is a cool, dark but short
						passageway that immediately and clearly opens into a bright round limited
						space. In the center of the bright round space, so huge that it takes up
						three-fourths of the space is an implacable white cube. The saint looks up
						into the blue sky above. She has left everything else behind and entered
						into her own metaphor for her soul, hermetic and infinite. She is not
						afraid.</p>
					<p>I wrote a very long list of all the women who I think are beautiful that I
						have been in the same room with. This is all related. I have been trained by
						art at the service of society to see certain things as beautiful: sunsets,
						flowers, stars, jewels, fruit, oceans, shells, trees, mountains, circles,
						colors, sunrises, and rocks and mothers with children and gold and sunlight
						and eyes and animals and glass and wood and shiny things; calligraphy and
						birds and structure and dragons and hills; stars and moon light, boats,
						flags, crucifixions and repetition and liquids, flight and the lives of the
						saints, altruism and patriotism and irony, rhythm and power and women. This
						list could be short if it were generalized and long if it were
						particularized. Very few of the women on my list are mothers, so why did I
						want to be a mother? I thought of two ways to be useful on this earth. One
						is to alleviate human suffering which would make one want to be a saint a
						scientist a revolutionary a doctor a politician a nurse a teacher a social
						worker a mass murderer a saint a mother an artist an entertainer a whore a
						mathematician or to add to human joy by being.</p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>Yellow Book</head>
					<p>It might be possible to believe that Chang Ching truly tried to revolutionize
						culture or the relationship between people and culture and that is why the
						bureaucrats who seem to be in power now are afraid of her. The New York
						Times says her revolu tionary operas were rigidly propagandistic but they
						see propa <pb n="95"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_095.jpg"
						/> ganda as a pejorative word and what do they know anyway? It interests me
						that she was an actress and perhaps an adventuress and I imagine she has
						been made to suffer because Mao sent his loyal wife of the Long March, who
						bore him children given to peasants on the route and then lost, off to
						Moscow and then divorced her so he could marry young Chang Ching. My son is
						crying in his room. It is ten o'clock at night and he is supposed to be
						learning to go to bed without me lying beside him or singing songs or
						telling stories until he goes to sleep. If I do all or any of those things
						his father gets mad at me. If I don't he cries and his father gets mad at
						him and then at me because it is my fault he cries and it takes hours before
						everyone calms down because I get mad too. All that writing was interrupted
						by my going and lying down beside Bran and holding his hand and within five
						minutes he fell asleep. The other night both children were in the bathtub
						and I gave them two roses from the dozens given me at my performance to play
						with. I dethorned them first. I got in the bathtub with them and they were
						pulling the petals off the roses and we all decorated each other with rose
						petals. But I worry about Chang Ching. What if both she and Mao had been
						mythologized together, as an inseparable passionate toward each other and
						passionate to the revolution pair. He would seem less a father if he were
						also seen as a lover. Wasn't it Justinian and Theodora who ran such an ideal
						government and she had been a dancing girl or something. I know I used to
						think that all men were republicans and all women democrats. (My daughter
						sometimes declares that all girls have blue eyes and all boys have brown
						eyes, but now she has a blue-eyed doll with a penis so her faith is a bit
						shaken.) (She also knows her brown-eyed halfsister has a cunt which is the
						word used opposite penis in this house because vagina is just not one of my
						favorite words and cunt is despite its frequent misuse as an insult.) I was
						taught that men were republicans because they had to worry about money and
						they didn't like to give it to poor people and that women, because they
						didn't have to work and are naturally extravagant and generous and
						soft-hearted, are democrats and fuzzy-headed liberals. Also because women
						can afford to be idealistic and hopeful whereas men have to be cynical to
						survive in the jungle. There is probably no demographic truth in that, it
						was only my own family. I am registered and almost always vote as a democrat
						but my real party is the changchingist communist party, which is entirely
						feminist and attempts to integrate art and life in a truly revolutionary
						manner. This party has only just now been imagined by me and its inspiration
						is languishing under house arrest in Peking on the other side of this funny
						round world, but the...</p>
					<p>Our loft is very odd now. You walk in and are confronted with what is either
						called a what-not or a marbletop, being an elaborately carved wooden object
						with a mirror and knobs for hanging coats and bags and a marble tabletop for
						throwing keys and letters and a drawer for lint brushes and miscellany, very
						victorian and handy. Then you turn right into a wall giving you three
						choices. December 2nd. You see, yesterday was short and unsatisfactory.
						There was a chinese piano tuner and a dinner party, the place I live in was
						not described, a tiny baby and very cold weather. My eyes are heavy-lidded,
						always have been. I don't look innocent. I have of course been told that my
						eyes are beautiful, but they aren't. They are hooded and abandoned and of a
						blue more organic than mineral. They feel tired except when I remember they
						are round balls mostly inside my head. They are not just what they appear.
						Once I saw a short accompanying a movie which was made for german children
						to explain the physiology and physics of the eye. I especially remember the
						waves of color, the red short and angry jumping and the blue long and
						peaceful wavy like the ocean. Then they made gray rosebushes turn all red.
						Would that it were that simple. I hate mysteries. I would truly like to know
						everything. I'd like to begin with all the most important things and then
						all the subsidiary facts would just fall into place in an orderly way and
						wouldn't be worrisome instead of just accumulating a lot of small things and
						reasoning out their places to build a structure I cannot imagine the shape
						of until I have finished building. I would like some blinding flashes like
						Einstein had on the trolley. I would like not to have to work so hard and be
						so heavy-lidded. I would also like not to think that I have to read a lot of
						books, that there I might find enough details for my constructions. No, I
						scream at myself, that is not where it is found these days, politely hiding
						on a quiet page, you might find it in the bathtub with your body or in
						socratic dialogues with your peer group or even in a cultural manifestation,
						but, no, never just sitting in a book. </p>
				</div>
			</div>
		</body>
		<back>
			<p> Poppy Johnson is an artist who lives in New York. </p>
		</back>
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Prosepoems for Old Women

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The Raised Voices of Women in Mid-Nineteenth Century France

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				<head>The Raised Voices of Women in Mid-Nineteenth Century France</head>
				<byline>Cäcilia Rentmeister</byline>
				<byline>Translated by Judith Lee</byline>
				<p> * Excerpted from <title>Honoré Daumier und die ungelosten Probleme der bur
						gerlichen Gesellschaft: Katalog zur Ausstellung der Neuen Gesellschaft für
						bildende Kunst,</title> Berlin, Schloss Charlottenburg, 1974. </p>
				<p> These are the questions: With what weapons did women in the mid-nineteenth
					century actually fight? Did they have allies? Was their enemy simply the male?
					What goals did they fight for? How were women affected by the reactions to the
					first French Revolution in 1789, and what laws controlled them? Why did they
					seek to join the early socialist groups and why were they rejected or
					disciplined as soon as they asserted their own interests? Why did their hopes in
					such apostles as Saint-Simon, Fourier, Cabet, George Sand or in the workers'
					alliances turn out to be illusions? How is it that women of all classes were
					able to unite, so as to form an autonomous women's movement?...</p>
				<div>
					<head>1789: The Pioneers</head>
					<p>The women's movement of 1848 sought victory in a battle in which, since the
						Great Revolution of 1789, it had only experienced defeat. In 1789 women had
						left their homes, had climbed down from the allegorical pedestals of freedom
						and fatherland to fight for these values with weapons in their hands. The
						"amazon of freedom," Théroigne de Méricourt, and her sisters throughout
						France formed amazon corps. It was women who advanced on Versailles to bring
						the royal couple and the crown prince — "the baker, the baker's wife and the
						baker's little boy"— to Paris. <note>1. Cf. Simone de Beauvoir, <title>The
								Second Sex</title> (New York: Knopf, 1953); Léon Abensour,
								<title>Histoire Générale du Féminisme</title> (Paris, 1921); Clara
							Zetkin, <title>Zur Geschichte der proletarischen Frauenbewegung
								Deutschlands</title> (Berlin, DDR, 1958); Sheila Rowbotham,
								<title>Hidden from History</title> (London, 1973).</note> As long as
						they integrated themselves into the fighting lines and subordinated
						themselves to common goals, they were accepted. But when they followed the
						men's example and established clubs to demand civil rights and freedom of
						economic activity for themselves, then the amazons of freedom became hateful
						Megaeras. As a companion to the “Declaration of the Rights of Man, Olympe de
						Gouges proposed in 1789 a “Declaration of the Rights of Women": “A woman has
						the right to go to the gallows; she must also have the right to mount the
						speaker's platform."</p>
					<p>In the same declaration she concluded, "Oh women, women! When will you stop
						being blind? What advantages have you gained through the Revolution? Greater
						contempt, more flagrant disregard. In the centuries of corruption the only
						thing you controlled was men's weaknesses. Your empire has been destroyed.
						What is there left? The conviction that men are unjust...."</p>
					<note>2. Quoted from Daniel Stern, <title>Histoire de la Révolution de
							1848</title> (Paris, 1878), II, pp. 378-379. Cf. also d'Agoult (Daniel
						Stern), <title>Mémoires 1833-1854</title> (Paris, 1877).</note>
					<p>Even though in 1790 the Constituent Assembly introduced a law enabling
						daughters to inherit property and, in 1792, a divorce law, it was only the
						wives and daughters of wealthy men whose lot improved. Women's more basic
						demands for education, the free exercise of an occupation and political
						rights were rejected. Napoleon's “Civil Code” of 1804 stated outright: “A
						wife owes obedience to her husband" (Article 1). Although Article 488 of the
						code states that all unmarried women of legal age are“...absolute mistresses
						of their person and property” and are able to carry out all acts of civil
						life, <note>3. Cf. <title>Gazette des femmes</title>, no. 53, 10. 10.
							1846.</note> as long as a single adult woman was not able to support
						herself through her own work, she would hardly pass her twenty-first year
						unmarried. By 1826 the restoration government had rescinded the divorce law;
						the women's clubs had already been banned in 1793 by the revolutionary
						government's Committee of Public Safety. </p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>Women's Emancipation between Revolutions: The Apostles</head>
					<p>In spite of the setbacks, women had perceived the possibilities for freedom.
						Soon after the turn of the century the social utopians appeared before the
						public with plans for a new social order. Searching for a new identity and
						lacking their own theories, women believed they had finally found their
						place in Saint Simon's Association universelle. Here man and woman would
						form the future “social unit" in a structure free of all enslavement.
						However, Saint-Simon himself provided only general formulations. The
						exegesis of his gospel was left to his apostle Père Enfantin. <note>4. Cf.
							Edith Thomas, <title>Les femmes en 1848</title> (Paris, 1948), pp.
							7ff.</note> And Enfantin again placed woman on the very throne that had
						always stood in the way of her liberation: she became an ideal figure to be
						worshipped. Enfantin and his numerous followers, men and women of all
						classes, awaited the appearance of the Mère—the female messiah who, with the
						Père, was supposed to form the Saint-Simonian papal couple, the “Divine
						Androgyne." This "Mother" was also supposed to break the "seal" on the
						shackles of women. But despite an intensive search, which included
						expeditions to the Orient, this worthy woman was never found. The seal on
						women's chains remained.</p>
					<p>Enfantin loosened one bond, however, with his réhabilitation de la chair—the
						"liberation of the flesh" from the bonds of Christianity's aversion to the
						carnal. This meant the moral relaxation of the bonds of marriage to the very
						boundaries of promiscuity and was first perceived by Saint-Simonian women as
						progressive. However, it proved to be neither a theoretical nor a practical
						step toward their liberation. The dualism of body and soul was maintained.
						Woman continued to be flesh, but her corporeality was elevated as a means of
						dignifying the male spirit. By making the body divine, woman could be
						sexually exploited that much more easily. In addition, no women sat in
						Enfantin's Conseil suprême, and in 1851 they were completely excluded from
						the hierarchy.</p>
					<p>A great many women learned a lesson from these disappointments. They began to
						search for a new apostle. Former supporters of Saint-Simon wrote in the
						first issue of their women's journal, Femme libre (1832):</p>
					<quote>When everyone is concerned about freedom and the proletariat demands
						liberation, in the face of this great movement of social emancipation taking
						place before our very eyes, shall women remain inactive?...Is our lot so
						fortunate that we have no demands to make? Up to now woman has been
						exploited and tyrannized. This tyranny, this exploitation must cease. Like
						men we are born free; one half of the human race cannot be sujected to the
						other without injustice. <note>5. Ibid., p. 10.</note>
					</quote>
					<pb n="53"
						facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_053.jpg"/>
					<p> Women saw themselves here not as a minority, but as one half of humanity. If
						the male proletariat, numerically a smaller group, could demand liberation,
						why not women?...</p>
					<p>Yet women were not in a position to create an autonomous emancipation
						movement. For too long they had been forceably prevented from gaining any
						insight into social relationships. Before 1848, no matter what family and
						social role the women's rightists envisioned for themselves, they always
						viewed their liberation in conjunction with that of the most oppressed
						classes. However, even these classes, which the women held to be their
						natural allies, rejected them as soon as they demanded the end of sexual
						domination.</p>
					<p>Flora Tristan, for example, led a lifelong battle for the cause of women and
						workers because of the dual oppression she had her self experienced. After
						the early death of her father she went to work as an illuminator. Her
						youthful marriage to her employer was unhappy; Tristan left her husband and
						took her children with her. According to the law at that time the marriage
						could not be dissolved and the husband was able to persecute his wife for
						many years without punishment. <note>6. For the following ef. Zetkin, pp.
							161ff. and Thomas, pp. 18ff.</note></p>
					<p>Tristan's major work, The Union of Labor, appeared in 1843, shortly before
						her death. Long before Marx she proposed and expounded her idea that
						although the emancipation of workers must be achieved by the workers
						themselves, it would only remain an illusion without the emancipation of
						women. Tristan also suggested to the workers the text for a declaration
						which ends, “We, the French proletariat...recognize...that the neglect and
						disregard which men have shown for the natural rights of women is the sole
						reason for unhappiness in the world....Sons of 1789, this is the task that
						your fathers have given you to do!"</p>
					<p>Because of this declaration and especially because of her portrayal of the
						misery of proletarian marriages, Tristan did not meet with sympathy from her
						public. Marriage and family were the last reserves where the worker could
						exercise control on account of his sex. Thus labor and trade associations
						recognized Tristan's work belatedly, if at all. In a letter to Considérant
						she writes with disappointment, “Almost everyone is against me. The men,
						because I demand the emancipation of women, the property owners, because I
						demand the emancipation of wage earners." <note>7. Thomas, p. 29.</note>
					</p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>The Bluestockings Corrupt the Moral Tradition of Marriage</head>
					<p>The Bluestockings (Les Bas-bleus) were not a specific organization.
						Originally the term referred to a group of female scholars and writers who
						owed their nickname to a certain blue-stockinged Mrs. Stillingfleet, a
						literary lady prominent in London around 1780.<note>8. Brockhaus, <title>Kl.
								[eines] Konversationslex.[ikon]</title> (Leipzig, 1886).</note> By
						the mid-nineteenth century, Daumier and his contemporaries used the term to
						mean any emancipated woman from the bourgeois class, which, being their own
						class, posed the greatest threat and inspired the strongest defenses.</p>
					<p>Since bourgeois married women revolted naturally not against employers, but
						against their husbands (who were not recognized as employers since housework
						was unpaid), marriage was the focal point of the emancipation efforts of the
						caricaturists' Bluestockings. In Daumier's series Conjugal Mores (1839), the
						battle between the sexes took place in the parlor or bedroom, the target the
						flaws of a lower- or middle-class marriage. The sixth plate of the series
						points clearly to the Bluestockings. A husband in his underwear holds out
						his torn pants to his wife, who is reading, and complains that George Sand
						keeps wives from mending their husbands' trousers: "Either we should make
						divorce legal again or outlaw this lady writer!" <note>9. Charivari, 6. 30.
							1839; [Loys] Delteil, [<title>Honoré Daumier</title>, 10 vols. (Paris,
							1925-1930)], no. 629.</note> This print evokes the three chief
						complaints against the Bas-bleus: wives refuse to mend trousers and even
						want to dress themselves in this symbol of their husbands' power; marriage
						and family are neglected in favor of the woman's own interests; and George
						Sand—"that woman writer who has inspired literary ambitions in the heads of
						faithful wives -is the source of all evil.</p>
					<p>What did George Sand really want and what kind of views did Daumier credit to
						her blue-stockinged followers? <note>10. Cf. G. Sand, <title>Gefahrten von
								der Frankreichwanderschaft [Compagnon du tour de France]</title>
							(Berlin, DDR, 1954), with an afterword by Rita Schober; Edith Thomas,
							George Sand (Paris, 1959); Jean Larnac, <title>G.[eorge] S.[and] als
								Revolutionarin [George Sand as a Revolutionary)</title>.</note> In
						1831 the Baroness Dudevant had left her husband and experienced her first
						success as a feuilletonist for Le Figaro under the pseudonym George Sand.
						Soon after that, in her novels Indiana and Lelia, she created heroines who
						protested the tyranny of marriage. The subsequent development of Sand's
						political consciousness was similar to that of countless other women. She
						moved from the Saint-Simonians, who wanted her to be their “Mother," to the
						social utopians and Lamennais and eventually, at the end of the 1830s, she
						converted to the views of Pierre Leroux, who fought capitalism through
						forced development of new methods of agricultural production. George Sand
						took Leroux's position in her so-called social novels written after 1840.
						She made farmers and workmen her protagonists and declared them to be the
						determining social force, paralleling the actual historical role of these
						classes from 1830 to 1850. Her opinions placed her in the left wing of the
						petit bourgeois democrats.</p>
					<p>As for the women's question, Sand—like Leroux—did not expect a solution until
						a new social order could be established. But it is not only because of this
						blind faith in automatic change that the women's question is peripheral in
						her “social” novels. From her extensive work with society and politics she
						could have come to a clearer analysis of the present and future role of
						women in society. But Sand was no longer concerned with the women's
						question. Having been accepted as one of their own by the most influential
						men of her time, she believed she had attained emancipation and was, indeed,
						already beyond it. She had become a man out of conviction and had nothing
						but contempt for her former sex. Thus even in 1848 she disassociated herself
						very clearly from the women's rightists.</p>
					<p>The George Sand who is the central figure in Daumier's Bluestocking series is
						still the early Sand, opposing marriage, although by the time the series
						appeared in 1844 she had already begun the development described above. Sand
						was the perfect model even for Daumier's travesty of emancipation—portrayed
						simply as the imitation and exchange of sexual roles. She dressed like a
						man, smoked, used male gestures...Daumier's Bluestockings have only first
						names, which makes them anonymous and insignificant. Among the precursors of
						these Eudoxies, Ismenes and Arsinoes are the French précieuses of the
						seventeenth century, whose legacy is visible today in the petites
						bourgeoises who imagine themselves to be leading intellectuals..</p>
					<p>When intellect and creativity, considered to be masculine qualities, are
						appropriated by daring women, they supposedly be come—if not men—then at
						least sexless creatures. Thus, in the first plate of Daumier's series, an
						unattractive Bluestocking gazing at her own likeness in a mirror takes
						comfort in Madame de Stael's words, “Genius has no sex." <note>11.
								<title>Charivari</title>, 1. 30. 1844. Delteil, nos.
							1221-1260.</note> Nevertheless, Daumier's Bluestockings still have
						families and still assume the duties of production and reproduction of
						manpower, although because of their intellectual predilections, they are
						unwilling to do housework. Indeed the very existence of the family is in
						danger, when the children are always falling into the bathwater or when the
						husband must care for them while his wife writes an “Ode to Motherhood." It
						escaped Daumier's notice that the traditional division of roles gives far
						more occasion for comedy when the husband is writing an ode praising the
						joys of motherhood while the wife keeps the children out of his way.</p>
					<p>In contrast to the women in Conjugal Mores, whose activities were limited to
						the domestic sphere, ambition drives Daumier's <pb n="54"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_054.jpg"
						/> Bluestockings to take the first steps out of the house and found
						organizations limited only to their own sex. They are either gaped at or
						hooted at as salon socialists; they change the function of the ladies' tea
						party and meet as a circle of drinking companions who parrot revolutionary
						ideologies. Daumier deals with the real, and more threatening, women's
						newspapers and clubs only twice. At a meeting to found their journal The
						Women's Literary Sans Culotte, Bluestocking journalists discuss the contents
						of their first issue: "What do we want to wreck first? For a beginning,
						let's smash everything!" And in the second print— the chaotic meeting of a
						women's club—it is typical of Daumier that once again the ironic caption
						speaks only of women's incapability of working as an organization. The
						observer learns nothing about the reason for the meeting or the topic of
						discussion. These sheets do not give the vaguest notion of the explosive
						power that the women's movement was about to develop in the February
						Revolution of 1848.</p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>The Women's Movement in 1848: Goals and Organization</head>
					<p>The February Revolution again called women to the battlefield. Again the
						overthrow of an old social order loosened their bonds, and for a short time
						in the anarchy of law and morals they escaped the control of their masters.
						Since 1789 they had expanded their demands and made them more precise:
						without the complete abolition of the domination of one sex by the other,
						the revolution could not be victorious. Their common goals were the right to
						work, the autonomous organization of wage-earning women, abolition of
						educational privileges, and the procurement of political and civil rights
						(suffrage, divorce).</p>
					<p>So that men could hear them, these working and bourgeois women gained the
						right to speak in democratic and socialist men's clubs like the Club
						Lyonnais or the Club de l'émancipation des peuples. At best the men
						tolerated or smiled at the women's presentations. Once again women learned
						from these experiences; they organized themselves autonomously. They came
						together from homes and factories to form their own clubs and editorial
						boards. “The natural agent for your liberation is woman," points out one of
						the women's papers. <note>12. <title>Voix [desfemmes]</title>, 4. 20.
							1848.</note> The two largest women's clubs in Paris were the Club de
						l'émancipation des femmes, founded by Jeanne Deroin and Dr. Malatier, and
						the Club des femmes, founded by Eugénie Niboyet. Clubs founded newspapers,
						newspapers founded clubs. Thus Jeanne Deroin published the Opinion des
						femmes <note>13. The successor to the paper <title>Politique des
								femmes</title>.</note> and Niboyet the Voix des femmes. To properly
						evaluate the achievements and significance of the women's newspapers, it
						must be kept in mind that they appeared daily and that newspapers were the
						only form of mass communication.</p>
					<note>14. There were countless other journals for women, but often only a few
						issues appeared because of the special difficulties involved (financing,
						organization, marketing and distribution, quality).</note>
					<p>Among the editors of the Voix, Niboyet had worked for a long time on women's
						newspapers, <note>15. She was editor from 1833 to 1834 in Lyon of the
							pro-Fourier <title>Conseiller des femmes</title>.</note> and Deroin was
						a teacher who wrote for the Opinion des femmes as well. Désirée Gay was a
						worker and later founder of a women laundry workers' union. A large number
						of other writers for the paper signed their articles with first name and
						occupation only. With its first issue on March 20, 1840, the Voix called for
						support of the aforementioned demands of the women's organizations.</p>
					<p>The battle dealt primarily with the right to vote and the right to work. On
						March 5, 1848, the provisional government had proclaimed “universal
						suffrage." The next day it specified exactly who was allowed to vote — all
						men over twenty-one years of age who enjoyed the rights of citizenship.
						Mentally retarded people and minors were not permitted to vote. The women
						belonged to this group.</p>
					<p>Women rose up in arms. In an address to the provisional government on March
						16, women artists, workers, writers and teachers demanded equal political
						rights for both sexes. Delegations from the “Committee for Women's Rights"
						went to Marrast at City Hall and insisted on the right to vote because the
						voting law failed to specifically exclude women. The Jacobin Club released a
						trial balloon with the nomination of George Sand as a candidate for the
						National Assembly. The women's clubs enthusiastically endorsed the
						nomination. The Voix des femmes of April 16 proclaimed, “We have nominated
						George Sand!" A woman in the National Assembly, one whom men had declared to
						be a genius, would have to be heard! But in the newspaper La Réforme Sand
						clearly disassociated herself from the movement. She admitted that freedom
						of opinion was the right of both sexes, but protested the unsolicited
						support of women whom she did not know and with whom she did not wish to
						associate.</p>
					<p>Eugénie Niboyet had realized that Sand was no women's rightist. In the Voix
						on April 10, 1848, she returned the affront. The candidacy of Madame George
						Sand was decided by men in clubs where women are not permitted.... The
						republic has not done away with the privileges of the talented, but it has
						limited them by imposing responsibilities." In the election on April 23
						George Sand was defeated. One half of the French people still had no
						voice.</p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>Organizing by Women</head>
					<p>The right to work meant economic independence, a fundamental step towards
						women's liberation. Finding work for women had nothing to do with charity.
						“Under a republican government privilege is replaced by equality, just as
						charity becomes fraternity...." (commentary in the Voix on April 3, 1848).
						The <pb n="55"
							facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_055.jpg"
						/> women's demands were presented before the Commission du travail of the
						provisional government in a very general and rather feeble form. An address
						directed to Louis Blanc, the commission chairman, read:</p>
					<quote>Many women are in a desperate situation.... Good morals build republics
						and it is the women who are responsible for good morals! Let the nation
						praise wom en's labor through your voice. We hope that through our will work
						done by women will have a status in the present reorganization of labor and
						that you will urge that the fundamental principle of association be applied
						to the kinds of work that are carried out by women.</quote>
					<note>16. Stern, II, p. 161.</note>
					<p>In a postscript the woman writing this appeal demanded auxiliary protective
						measures to make it possible for women to work and to make their work
						easier, such as the establishment of "national restaurants, state laundries,
						day-care centers and so forth.</p>
					<note>17. <title>Voix des femmes</title>, 3.2. 1848.</note>
					<p>The women's movement sought to organize female workers in two ways. First,
						through the creation of associations at existing places of work. Second, by
						demanding that the state set up national workshops for women to reduce
						unemployment.</p>
					<p>Workers' associations already existed under the July Monarchy in embryonic
						forms, but they were constantly exposed to persecution by Louis-Philippe's
						government. However, with the February Revolution of 1848, the concept of an
						"association' took on an almost magical significance, for it represented
						both an end to all exploitation and a "brotherliness” which would be real
						ized in all social realms. <note>18. Edith Thomas, <title>Pauline
								Roland</title> (Paris, 1956), p. 127.</note> Women also formed
						associations. Pauline Roland founded an association for socialist teachers.
						The alliance of midwives, Sages femmes unies, demanded medical training,
						better care for the working classes and state wages. The Voix des femmes
						added that women should reclaim gynecology and no longer surrender their
						bodies to profit-seeking, incompetent doctors.</p>
					<note>19. <title>Voix des femmes</title>, 4.20. 1848.</note>
					<p>The Voix also founded an association for domestic workers, Association des
						femmes à gages, to eliminate the isolation inherent in domestic work. In
						October, 1848, Jeanne Deroin launched the Association des ouvrières
						lingères. The female laundry workers organized their businesses themselves,
						from soliciting orders to delivery. One quarter of the profit was paid out
						in wages, one quarter went into a relief fund for the workers and the other
						half went back into production. <note>20. Thomas, <title>Les femmes en
								1848</title>, pp. 71ff.</note> Finally, in August 1848, Deroin
						founded a central French labor union movement. In answer to her call
						delegates from a large number of associations met in Paris to discuss
						suggestions for a federation — 140 associations formed the alliance. In 1850
						Deroin was imprisoned for half a year as an enemy of property, individualism
						and male domination in the state and in the family.</p>
					<p>In March 1848, the suggestion was first made, in the Voix des femmes, that
						the government's National Workshops also be established for women. In the
						course of their campaign, delegates of female workers finally established
						Ateliers des femmes (work shops for women) through the Commission du
						travail. Désirée Gay, a worker and editorial writer for the Voix, was chosen
						as a delegate by the female workers of the second arrondissement of Paris.
						She gave regular reports in the Voix about the organization and development
						of the newly opened workshops in the second district, and from her reports
						we get an idea of what was happen ing in other ateliers.</p>
					<p>Every 100 female workers were under the command of a division leader (daily
						wage: 3 francs). Every ten women were in turn assigned to a brigade leader
						(daily wage: 1.50 francs). On March 20, 1848, the Voix published figures on
						the average earnings of seamstresses: for a twelve-hour day they could earn
						at the most 1 franc in the city, in the country no more than 60 centimes. In
						general, women earned only about one-third of what men earned. Female
						workers sewed national guard shirts for the government and received
						piece-wages. Since most of them were un trained, many barely received 30
						centimes a day, far below the subsistence minimum. The substantial wage
						differences within the ateliers also made women unhappy. The complaints
						multiplied. An editorial in the Voix on April 14, 1848, declared:</p>
					<quote>Why do women revolt? Because women's workshops are controlled by men,
						because favoritism brings higher wages than work accomplished, finally,
						because some have too much and others too little. What the female worker
						wants is not an organized hand-out, but rather a just reward for work
						done.... We want all people to be able to make a living from their
						labor....</quote>
					<p>On April 18 Désirée Gay wrote:</p>
					<quote>Female workers are dying of hunger. The work that they are given to do is
						only bait. The organization of women's work is only despotism under a new
						name The appointment of women's delegates is a false pretense thought up by
						men who want to get women off their backs.</quote>
					<p>Because of her energetic advocation of women's rights, Désirée Gay was fired
						as division leader several days later. The government threatened to imprison
						her and close the ateliers, if there was an uprising among women
						workers.</p>
					<p>In the government decree of June 23, 1848, on the closing of the National
						Workshops, the ateliers des femmes did not even need to be mentioned. They
						had already become ineffectual due to the participation of women in the June
						insurrection.</p>
					<note>21. Ibid., p. 56.</note>
					<p>The most infamous society of female workers formed for the liberation of
						women was a paramilitary group, a feminist “militia," called the
						Vesuviennes. The members adopted this nick name, mockingly applied by the
						public, and gave it their own interpretation. Actually it described their
						situation superbly: like long dammed-up lava, they would cause social
						upheaval. With weapons clashing, the Vésuviennes marched in front of the
						City Hall and at the Place Vendôme under the command of Josephine
						Frenouillet. This was grist for the mill of Charivari. From the end of March
						onwards, the house caricaturist Cham was already lashing out at the
						“Vesuvian marriage” under the weekly heading Revue comique de la semaine. He
						had the husband of a Vésuvienne sigh while minding the children, “Since
						early morning my wife has been in front of City Hall at a proclamation
						ceremony and here little Gugusse has been proclaiming for two hours that she
						wants to be fed!"</p>
					<note>22. <title>Charivari</title>, 4.2. 1848.</note>
					<p>The ideal “Vesuvian marriage" is presented in the “constitution" of the
						Vésuviennes. <note>23. Thomas, <title>Les femmes en 1848</title>, pp.
							59-60.</note> Divorce is permitted—but every woman over twenty-one and
						every man over twenty-six is obliged to marry. If a woman should refuse to
						marry, or if it is proved that she is adopting her husband's political
						views, she will lose all her rights as a female citizen, rights which she
						otherwise enjoys without restriction from the age of fifteen. In a Vesuvian
						marriage”...the spouses are partners, united by interest and feelings.
						Neither one is allowed to dominate." Both marriage partners are to be
						gainfully employed; housework is shared. If the husband refuses to do
						housework, he must then serve in his wife's place in the Civil Guard as well
						as his own in the National Guard. It is a program of equality consistent to
						the last degree: even sex-related clothing was gradually to disappear.</p>
					<pb n="56"
						facs="https://leaf.bucknell.edu/sites/default/files/2025-02/heresies02_056.jpg"/>
					<p>In the face of such goals, it is no wonder that the Vésuviennes were the
						favorite butt of satirical attacks. While Daumier's Divorce Rightists"
						series did not appear until August 1848, Charivari had already been printing
						the twenty-plate series Les Vésuviennes by E. de Beaumont since the first of
						May. Beaumont pictured the Vésuviennes almost exclusively as capricious
						young girls, as ballet pupils upon the drill field, their rifles held, as if
						by accident, in delicate hands.</p>
					<p>The relationship between the Vésuviennes and other women's organizations was
						probably strained due to methods rather than goals. Except for a few stones
						thrown through the Charivari windows, the socialist women rejected violence
						as a political instrument.</p>
				</div>
				<div>
					<head>The "Socialist Women"</head>
					<p>After the June (1848) insurrection, all political activities, above all the
						organization of clubs, were forbidden to women. The Voix des femmes had to
						cease publication. These measures were based on a decree by the Assemblée,
						which was initially worded: "Women and minors may not be members of a club
						nor attend club meetings." After protests against the defamatory way in
						which women and minors were put in the same category, minors were eliminated
						from the decree, but the ban against women remained.</p>
					<note>24. Ibid., pp. 57ff.</note>
					<p>As a consequence, women turned to political banquets (bankettes), which
						because of their inflammatory nature, partially replaced the clubs. At the
						beginning of 1849 Proudhon protested against the participation of women in a
						banquet presided over by Pierre Leroux. Daumier referred to this on January
						25, 1849, in Charivari. A woman in one of his caricatures complains, "And
						Proudhon does not want us to go to socialist banquets...the unfortunate man
						has never been in love...otherwise he would realize that a woman graces any
						occasion by her very presence!”</p>
					<note>25. Delteil, no. 1794.</note>
					<p>The conspiracy against husbands, the resistance to obedience and the neglect
						of the home are once again presented as the chief goals of Daumier's Femmes
						Socialistes. <note>26. Delteil, nos. 1916-1927.</note> In this series,
						however, he also addresses himself for the first time to contemporary
						events: the closing of the clubs, the banquets, and the election campaign of
						Jeanne Deroin, who had intended to capitalize on the fact that there was no
						law which made women ineligible for public office. At the meetings of the
						Democrat-Socialists she took the floor and demanded that she be nominated,
						explaining, “They are Democrat-Socialists, they desire the end of
						exploitation of one man by another and of women by men, they want a complete
						and radical abolition of all privileges of sex, race, birth, class and
						property.... It is in the name of these principles that I present myself as
						a candidate for the legislative assembly and request the support of the
						party...."</p>
					<note>27. Thomas, <title>Les femmes en 1848</title>, pp. 63ff. on the candidacy
						of Deroin.</note>
					<p>As a political candidate she went directly to the voters of the Seine
						district: “A legislative assembly which is made up only of men is just as
						incapable of making laws to govern a society of men and women as an assembly
						of privileged persons would be to decide on the interests of the workers,
						just as an assembly of capitalists would be incapable of upholding the honor
						of the father land." When the Democrat-Socialists tried to prevent her from
						speaking at a meeting, she took the floor anyway and asked what had happened
						to the principles of those “... who demand the abolition of privilege' but
						still try to keep that privilege which they hold in common with the
						privileged, that privilege which is the source of all privilege and of all
						social injustice: the domination of man over woman?" Although she was
						finally suggested as a candidate for the Democrat-Socialists, Deroin
						received only a few votes.</p>
					<p>George Sand was also suggested and rejected as a candidate. Again she
						demonstrated that she did not think of herself as a woman, for she
						disapproved of both active and passive suffrage for members of her own sex.
						In Sand's view women were political minors, incapable of making decisions
						because of their fundamental disenfranchisement. The women's movement could
						only cause promiscuity and put the home in danger. Only in the distant
						future, under changed social conditions, would women be able to participate
						in politics and share in the decision-making process.</p>
					<p>On the subject of Deroin's candidacy, Proudhon again spoke out, in the
						journal Le Peuple, taking a strong position against women's emancipation:
						“What woman must free herself from is not man. In our modern society there
						is little progress to be made in this respect. As with the proletariat, it
						is capitalist despotism which tyrannizes her heart and throws her into the
						milieu of the workshop where slowly her morale and her body are
						destroyed.</p>
					<p>And Jeanne Deroin replied in her paper, L'Opinion des femmes: "Pardon me,
						Monsieur, women are trying to free them selves from men.... it is not so
						much a question of getting women out of the workshop as a need to change the
						workshop itself and to ennoble it both for women and for the proletarian
						worker, since it is the source of work and independence."</p>
					<note>28. Ibid., pp. 68-69.</note>
				</div>
			</div>
		</body>
		<back>
			<p> Cäcilia Rentmeister is an art historian from Berlin. She teaches at the Hochschule
				für Bildende Kunst and is completing her doctoral disserta tion, “Woman as Sphinx,”
				on nineteenth-century painting. </p>
		</back>
	</text>
</TEI>

Lament on the Eve of Her Daughter's Birthday

<lg>
                  <l>There are always added difficulties: unwashed glasses, </l>
                  <l>the box with some sweaters, the floral arrangement </l>
                  <l>in the kitchen, the kitchen floor. It was a grid </l>
                  <l>of pale blue and gray linoleum; it no longer exists. </l>
                  <l>All of us move in time for winter. </l>
                  <l>Things are most dangerous when habits are kicked; </l>
                  <l>birds, and the way you imagine.</l>
               </lg>
               <lg>
                  <l>We tell stories. </l>
                  <l>This to restrain the sense that we would give in </l>
                  <l>too easily when the time came. The time had come. </l>
                  <l>The first red and the first green are not the same; </l>
                  <l>between death and birth are radical colors, </l>
                  <l>of which the trees are stain. I told stories for hours, </l>
                  <l>each made from imminent, rendered places; talk itself </l>
                  <l>a terrain. I recall games: ducking and kisses and tails. </l>
                  <l>Someone is always blinded. Someone was removed in a chair.</l>
               </lg>
            </div>
         </div>
      </body>
      <back>
         <p> Ann Lauterbach is a native New Yorker. She has just compiled her first collection of
            poems, titled Chalk. Estelle Leontief was poetry editor of Colloquy magazine, has
            published two books of poetry—Razerol and Whatever Happens—with Claire van Vliet of
            Janus Press, Vermont. She is now a reader of poetry and fiction for the Partisan Review.
         </p>
      </back>
   </text>
</TEI>

3 Short Fictions

What is Left?

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			<pb n="101"/>
			<head><title>WHAT IS LEFT?</title></head>
			<byline><persName><persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Assata Shakur</persName></persName></byline>

<lg>
				<l>AFTER THE BARS AND THE GATES AND THE DEGRADATION</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE LOCK INS AND THE LOCK OUTS AND THE LOCK UPS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, AFTER THE CHAINS THAT GET ENTANGLED IN THE GREY OF ONE'S MATTER</l>
				<l>AFTER THE BARS THAT GET STUCK IN THE HEARTS OF MEN AND WOMEN</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE TEARS AND DISAPPOINTMENTS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE LONELY ISOLATION</l>
				<l>AFTER THE CUT WRIST AND THE HEAVY NOOSE</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, AFTER THE COMMISSARY KISSES</l>
				<l>AND THE GET-YOUR-SHIT-OFF-BLUES</l>
				<l>AFTER THE HUSTLER HAS BEEN HUSTLED</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE SAD FUTILE MANEUVERS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE SHRILL AND BARREN LAUGHTER</l>
				<l>AFTER THE CONTRABAND EMOTIONS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER THE MURDERBURGERS AND THE COON SQUADS AND THE TEAR CAS</l>
				<l>AFTER THE BULLS AND THE BULLPENS AND THE BULLSHIT</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN LIKE, AFTER YOU KNOW THAT GOD CANT BE TRUSTED</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU KNOW THAT THE SHRINK IS A PUSHER</l>
				<l>THAT THE WORD IS A WHIP, AND THE BADGE IS A BULLET</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU KNOW THAT THE DEAD ARE STILL WALKING</l>
				<l>AFTER YOU REALIZE THAT SILENCE IS TALKING</l>
				<l>THAT OUTSIDE AND INSIDE ARE JUST AN ILLUSION</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, WHERE IS THE SUN?</l>
				<l>WHERE ARE HER ARMS AND WHERE ARE HER KISSES?</l>
				<l>THERE ARE LIP PRINTS ON MY PILLOW</l>
				<l>I AM SEARCHING</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, NOTHING IS STANDSTILL AND NOTHING IS ABSTRACT</l>
				<l>THE WING OF A BUTTERFLY CANT TAKE FLIGHT</l>
				<l>THE FOOT ON MY NECK IS A PART OF A BODY</l>
				<l>THE SONG THAT I SING IS A PART OF AN ECHO</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I MEAN, LIKE, LOVE IS SPECIFIC</l>
				<l>IS MY MIND A MACHINE GUN?</l>
				<l>IS MY HEART A HACKSAW?</l>
				<l>CAN I MAKE FREEDOM REAL? YEAH,</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
				<l>I AM AT THE TOP AND BOTTOM OF A LOWER-ARCHY</l>
				<l>I AM IN LOVE WITH LOSERS AND LAUGHTER</l>
				<l>I AM IN LOVE WITH FREEDOM AND CHILDREN</l>
				<l>LOVE IS MY SWORD AND TRUTH IS MY COMPASS</l>
				<l>WHAT IS LEFT?</l>
			</lg>

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			<p><persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Assata Shakur</persName>/<persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Joanne Chesimard</persName>; courtesy of Assata Shakur Defense Committee.</p>
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ABCs

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					<persName>Erica Delsandro</persName>
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				<respStmt>
					<persName>Margaret Hunter</persName>
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					<persName>Diane Jakacki</persName>
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					<persName>Sophie McQuaide</persName>
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				</respStmt>
				<respStmt>
					<persName>Olivia Martin</persName>
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				<respStmt>
					<persName>Bri Perea</persName>
					<resp>Editor</resp>
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				<respStmt>
					<persName>Roger Rothman</persName>
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				<respStmt>
					<persName>Kaitlyn Segreti</persName>
					<resp>Editor</resp>
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				<respStmt>
					<persName>Maggie Smith</persName>
					<resp>Editor</resp>
				</respStmt>
				<respStmt>
					<persName>Maya Wadhwa</persName>
					<resp>Editor</resp>
				</respStmt>
				<funder>Bucknell University Humanities Center</funder>
				<funder>Bucknell University Office of Undergraduate Research</funder>
				<funder>The Mellon Foundation</funder>
				<funder>National Endowment for the Humanities</funder>
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					<name>Bucknell University</name>
					<address>
						<street>One Dent Drive</street>
						<settlement>Lewisburg</settlement>
						<region>Pennsylvania</region>
						<postCode>17837</postCode>
					</address>
				</distributor>
				<availability>
					<licence>Bucknell Heresies Project: Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial
						4.0 International (CC BY-NC 4.0)</licence>
					<licence>Heresies journal: © Heresies Collective</licence>
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						<title>Heresies: Issue 1</title>
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							<publisher>HERESIES: A Feminist Publication on Art and
								Politics</publisher>
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								<address>
									<name>Heresies</name>
									<postBox>P.O. Boxx 766, Canal Street Station</postBox>
									<settlement>New York</settlement>
									<region>New York</region>
									<postCode>10013</postCode>
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<div><head><title>ABCS</title></head>
			<byline><persName><persName key="Susan Yankowitz" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q19517707" cert="high" type="real">Susan Yankowitz</persName></persName></byline></div>

<div type="letter" n="a">
				<head>AN APPLE</head>
				<p>Manuelo Manchik admires the apple before devouring it. He cups the thing in the
					palm of his hand, turning it this way and that; the light bounces off the curves
					of its golden skin. O golden delicious, you make a mouth water! The fruit is
					round and firm and fully packed; unlike the mealy banana, it will resist his
					teeth just a little. Again his mouth waters as he delays the coming pleasure. He
					cups the thing in the palm of one hand, stroking it with the other; it is smooth
					and cool beneath his fingers. O golden delicious, you do tempt a man! Yes there
					is no doubt, you were made to be eaten. He opens his mouth wide and chomps
					through to the core in a single bite. Two black seeds slither in a rill of juice
					down his chin.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="b">
				<head>BREASTS</head>
				<p>At a gathering of talents, artistic and profane, MM had spotted across the
					crowded room his own dreamed-of Olympia, half-reclining on a fat settee. The
					exquisite naturalness of her <persName key="Édouard Manet" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q40599" cert="high" type="real">Manet</persName> pose enchanted him no less than her near
					nudity. Under her see-through blouse her breasts were classic. O wonder. O no
					wonder that they pushed out the silk (or was it cheap nylon?) of her blouse
					exactly like breasts; that to exploring hands (at other hours of course for now
					she was half-reclining naturally alone) they were as round and firm and full as
					round firm full breasts; and that the nipples which tipped these breasts
					resembled nothing so much as the nipples which tip such breasts. In short and in
					sum, her breasts were truly like breasts. But MM had no interest in the obvious.
					He was a man of imagination, of poetry even. The excesses of similitude
					multiplied by their exact number his pleasures. He saw what he saw: Olympia with
					breasts which were breasts and at the same time various other roundnesses not
					breasts. And roundness was all, preferable even to that commonplace of
					literature, ripeness. Only one fact was crucial and he had ascertained it,
					subtly brushing his fingers against her shoulders: she was not made of wax. So
					when MM opened his mouth wide one night days later and bit with gusto into the
					breast on the left, that same breast bled. Damn, he had erred in his
					distinctions! But Manuelo Manchik was not a man to hang fire. With a gesture of
					magnificent unconcern, he wiped his chin and continued eating.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="c">
				<head>CHYME</head>
				<p>Olympia had accepted that name, accepted too the play of tongue and teeth,
					accepted even the discomfort of her body crushed beneath him when poing! she was
					punctured. Too late to cry foul! she fell, undone by mastication. Softened by
					saliva she travelled in mouthfuls through his gullet and into the fat sac of his
					stomach. There she lodges, divided against herself. </p><p>Fool, she chides herself, to
					have come to chyme!</p>
				<p>Her head is separated from her body. Her legs, each in one long piece, are
					severed from her crotch and from each other, Her two loose breasts bounce from
					wall to wall, free-floating, as his stomach contracts and dilates in digestion. Pressed against the locked pyloric door she is grateful at least that she
					will not be further fractured by the cleaving peristaltic actions of his
					intestine. There is no disguising the situation: she is split, sundered, she is
					not in one piece. If she does not want to sour in his belly (and why would she
					desire such a fate?) she must somehow (but how?) reverse the process herself.
					But herself is not. From deep inside Manuelo's stomach, she surveys the chaos of
					her members and thinks: I must pull myself together! </p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="d">
				<head>DREAM?</head>
				<p>Maybe it's all a dream, she reasons reasonably enough, and when I wake up I'll
					find myself me again, just me, no one's Olympia, in toto. And so she falls to
					sleep so she can fall awake. This is the dream she finds: she is standing in
					water being fucked in the ass by the shameless beak of a crane. His long legs
					pinion her hips. He wades and fishes, taking his time. It hurts. What can she do
					but submit? Her name is not Leda; the power is all his.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="e">
				<head>ESCAPE</head>
				<p>She wakes up gagging with her left foot in her mouth. No use sucking on the toes,
					they're not sour balls, they won't dissolve or sweeten her palate. Her mouth is
					dry with sleep and anxiety; she could have suffocated during that nighttime
					shift. There is no escaping the fact now: she must escape! But how? She wags her
					head a few times to float the foot free as she ponders the ins and outs. The
					nearest exit is the rear. Can she deliver herself through there? MM is <pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_057.jpg"/> notoriously tight-assed. She experiments, jamming her foot in the
					door; MM jumps. Assured of the flexibility of that aperture, she glances upward
					to the other hole, further away but far less foul. Keeping her foot wedged in
					the crack she sticks a finger up his throat; MM gags. Both routes are open to
					her. Which out should she take?</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="f">
				<head>FLATULENCE</head>
				<p>MM ejects a fart and holds his nose in indignation. The cream of the art world
					thins around him. Many noses are held. How could she, the bitch, upset him so?
					He excuses himself gracefully from the room, leaving his smell behind. Is he
					stuck with her forever? Must he pay with his immaculate reputation for one
					night's overindulgence? O she is lodged there in his gut, forcing him to take
					strong measures.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="g">
				<head>GLUTTONY</head>
				<p>"I'd like to eat you up," he had said. She had been enthusiastic. Whose sin was
					it then? Definitely food for thought, his and hers.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="h">
				<head>HIS AND HERS</head>
				<p>HIS: She tempted me. <lb/> HERS: He ate.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="i">
				<head>INDIGESTION</head>
				<p>"I'm carrying her around. She weighs me down. Really, I'm not a free man
					anymore," Manuelo confided to his friend the doctor, picking his teeth with an
					indigestible sliver of fingernail. "You must get her out of your system,"
					replied the learned doc. "May I prescribe a laxative?" </p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="j">
				<head>JUSTICE MORE OR LESS POETIC</head>
				<p>She hadn't cared who drove into her. He had had a full set. It was good sport
					yes. And what a ball! He had swung hard, lifted high and, rimming the cup first
					with a brilliant display of control, had dropped right in: hole in one, Manuelo
					Manchik was not the sort to putter around. Well, neither was she.</p>
				<p>"You're a real swinger," he complimented her.</p>
				<p>"Just par for the course," she replied, refering of course to her life.</p>
				<p>Now she was teed-off, finding herself in the trap. O she had been green in those
					green days, but she would lie in the roughage no longer. With a method to her
					madness she slices into his intestine with her teeth. MM howls then doubles
					over, squeezing her (according to plan) more closely together; his cramp adheres
					her. When he straightens up she delights to see the connections: her legs
					secured to her groin and her groin to her torso, o classic <persName key="Venus" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q47652">venus</persName> though still
					not Olympia for her breasts and arms are still somewhere adrift. And her head,
					that obstinate be-bumped ball, is lying slightly offcourse, planning the next
					shot. </p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="k">
				<head>KIDDING</head>
				<p>When she reached twenty-five, her psychiatrist had said (though gently): "All
					kidding aside, my dear, you are no longer a child prodigy." </p><p>She had run home
					crying to her mother, blurting the tragic news. "So? What are you going to do
					with yourself?" mother had asked, heart-to-heart.</p>
				<p>"I gotta grow up sometime, ma. He's right. So here's what: I'm gonna have a
					baby!" </p><p>"What? What?" disbelieving ma had hollered, flinging her daughter from
					her sacked-out breast. "I'm going to have a bastard?" "No, ma, no," she calmed
					her mother. "<emph>I'm</emph> gonna have the bastard."</p>
				<p>The child was born crying and one gulp of air later, died. The bereaved not yet a
					mother invited her psychiatrist to the funeral and told him then and there that
					they were quits. That was how he would remember her: standing gravely at the
					grave, dressed all in black, a grown-up color.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="l">
				<head>LIKE</head>
				<p>"I like you," MM had said (as had others), thinking to flatter.</p>
				<p>"No you're not," she retorted almost at once, angry almost. "You're not like me
					at all."</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="m">
				<head>MILK OF MAGNESIA</head>
				<p>He takes the prescribed dosage and waits.</p>
			</div>
			<div type="letter" n="n">
				<head>NO ANSWERS</head>
				<p>In the park, Abigale is lying on her belly, waiting as pre-arranged for her best
					friend, the putative Olympia. She pokes with a spring twig at the underside of a
					caterpillar, trying to hurry it out of its skin.</p>
				<p>"Where are your wings, caterpillar?" she asks.</p>
				<p>"And where was I before I was born?"</p>
				<p>"And where, sky, do you get off, looking down on me?"</p>
				<p>Everything is mute. The silence is its own question.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="o">
				<head>OSCILLATIONS</head>
				<p>Suddenly everything starts churning. Using all anchored organs for ballast, she
					holds herself together; he will not shake her up, will not fragment her. His
					belly bloats with gases, goes into a rumble. So! He is trying to purge himself
					by purging her. The rejection infuriates her. She will come out when she is good
					and ready, and she will use the exit of her choice. Tough shit, Manuelo! She
					braces herself against his spasms.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="p">
				<head>P'S &amp; Q'S</head>
				<p>"Mind them!" her mother had warned. But what were they? She had learned the
					alphabet thoroughly but the deeper meanings of p's and q's had eluded her. If
					she had gone further in her study of letters, would she have led a simpler
					life?</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="r">
				<head>REFLECTION</head>
				<p>MM strains.</p>
				<p>O resists.</p>
				<p>The battle is in earnest. Some old words rise to the occasion. "The man who hates
					you and the woman who is hated are probably one and the same," her psychiatrist
					had suggested, maddening her (at the time) into silence.</p>
				<p>Was he speaking of suicide?</p>
				<p>Hers?</p>
				<p>The thought sobers her and sheds light. After all, it is almost spring out there.
					The crocuses are already beginning their day-open night-close ritual. She could
					if she chose walk outside without a coat, breathing sunlight. Someone, also
					without a coat, might be coming round the corner, fated to bump chests with her.
					Her mind too, she realizes, can turn corners. And certainly Abigale, her old
					friend, must be waiting for her in the park this very moment.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="s">
				<head>SURE IS</head>
				<p>His stomach is storming around her with a vengeance. She holds on for dear life.
					O yes, it is so so dear, good old life. It is indeed of the essence, hers in
					particular. Her imagination has never yet failed her. She will live! Out of the
					darkness, the closet, the belly of this male whale. The way is lighted by divine
					coincidence as MM opens his mouth widely to expel a belch. The light rays down
					his throat, a sign. Her route has been decided. Really, there are possibilities
					in everything, even a belch, she concludes.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="t">
				<head>TRANSLATION (AFTER <persName key="Rainer Maria Rilke" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q76483">RILKE</persName>)</head>
				<p>Manuelo has thrown caution to the winds. "Do something," he pleads. "I need
					help."</p>
				<p>"Yes," agrees the doctor, "you must change your life."</p>
				<p>O but it hurts! His eyes are blind with tears.</p>
				<p>Manuelo weeps with the effort to restrain them.</p>
			</div>

<div type="letter" n="u">
				<head>UNITED SHE CAN</head>
				<p>He falls back into his chair, trying to relax, inadvertently giving her the room
					she needs to maneuver. She holds herself snugly in her own arms; they mate with
					their respective sockets, home at last. Now able to manipulate with her hands,
					the rest is easy. She catches her drifting breasts and fixes them onto her
					chest. She knows which is which, having observed in moments of self-criticism
					that the left is slightly larger than the right. It occurs to her at this
					juncture that nature is purposive in all plans. Nothing is very much like
					anything else, each thing is essentially itself and under no compulsion to be
					other. Goodbye then, Manuelo's Olympia! Goodbye velvet settee and languid pose!
					MM's ass presses down into the seat, squeezing her upward. Her body rises toward
					her head and miraculously naturally unites with it. He cannot keep her down. He
					does not want to. She is on her way.</p>
			</div>
			<div type="letter" n="v">
				<head>VOYAGING</head>
				<p>Still afraid that she will fall apart — these connections are so tenuous, so
					untested — she kicks her feet, gingerly at first, then with increasing vigor as
					she finds to her elation that they will move her. She paddles upward toward his
					heart. O the current there is strong; she struggles bravely; she falters, sucked
					into its vortex; she kicks, she flails and manages, through stratagems newly
					known to science, to bypass the whole throbbing mass. The worst is over. She
					catches her breath at his lungs and then, with a great final spurt, dives
					through his esophagus.</p>

</div>
			<div type="letter" n="w">
				<head>WHOOPS!</head>
				<p>She spills out of his mouth.</p>
				<p>"Hi, Manuelo."</p>
				<p>"Olympia!"</p>
				<p>They stand gaping at each other, both of them messy with blood and other slime.
					She sets him straight at once. "My real name's Claire. Can I take a shower?"</p>
			</div>

<pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_059.jpg"/>
			<div type="letter" n="x">
				<head>x =</head>
				<p>Claire, not Olympia then. He looks at her in this new light as he scrubs her
					back. How could he not have noticed those pimples on her shoulders? Perhaps that
					is why he was unable to stomach her. But no, no, the mystery is more than skin
					deep.</p>
				<p>"Scrub harder, Manuelo."</p>
				<p>He does, marveling at the dead skin which peels off, flake by flake. How many
					layers are there? He stares into the skin, lost in ponderings beneath the
					surface and then, with a wild cry of exultation, realizes that he has found his
					calling. Dermatology will teach him the topography of the flesh. Through that
					mundane profession he will explore the twin mysteries of desire and disgust.</p>
				<p>"You're breaking the skin again!" shouts Claire.</p>
				<p>"Enough!"</p>
			</div>
			<div type="letter" n="y">
				<head>YOU</head>
				<p>"You have helped me to find myself," they admit simultaneously and, with a tender
					embrace, part forever.</p>
			</div>
			<div type="letter" n="z">
				<head>ZOON</head>
				<p>Shining in the sunlight which is shining too, she runs to the park. Abigale is
					asleep; a caterpillar is making a moustache on her upper lip. Claire picks it
					off and tosses it carelessly into the grass. It slithers away as Abigale
					wakes.</p>
				<p>"Where have you been?" drowsy A asks. Claire hesitates. What words could convey
					the absurdity, the enormity of her adventure? An attempt is necessary. She
					begins to stammer a reply but her stomach, miraculously to the rescue, speaks
					first: loudly it rumbles, fiercely it growls. Both women laugh. The noise
					suffices for response.</p>
				<p>Claire stretches out her hands to Abigale and, with a little tug, pulles her to
					her feet.</p>
				<p>"It's time for another beginning," Claire says.</p>
				<p>"It always was," Abigale grins.</p>
				<p>And off they go, old friends hand in hand, in search of apples.</p>
			</div>
		</body>

<back>
			<div><p>Susan Yankowitz's first novel, <title ref="http://viaf.org/viaf/167148269718005230000">Silent Witness</title>, was published by Knopf
				in May. Her play, <title>Still Life</title>, will be produced in January at the
				Women's Interarts Theatre, and her published plays include <title ref="http://viaf.org/viaf/5179165271898210690008">Slaughterhouse
					Play</title>, <title><title>Terminal</title></title>, <title>Boxes</title>, and <title>The
					Prison Game</title>, among others.</p></div>
		</back>

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The Art of Not Bowing

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				<title>The Art of Not Bowing: Writing by Women in Prison</title>
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				<funder>Bucknell University Humanities Center</funder>
				<funder>Bucknell University Office of Undergraduate Research</funder>
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			<pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_032.jpg"/>
			<div><head><title>The Art of Not Bowing: Writing by Women in Prison</title></head>
			<byline><persName key="Carol Muske-Dukes" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q5044485">Carol Muske</persName></byline></div>
			<div><lg>
				<l>Who the hell am l anyway</l>
				<l>Not to bow?</l>
				<l>(<persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Assata Shakur</persName>/<persName key="Assata Shakur" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q467961">Joanne Chesimard</persName>)</l>
			</lg>

<p>In July 1973 I wrote an article for <emph><title key="Village Voice" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q876158">The Village Voice</title></emph> about a hunger strike then taking place at the Women's House of Detention (New York City Correctional
				Institution for Women, housing around 400 detention and sentenced women) on
				Riker's Island. I used a pseudonym for the article because I was working at the time
				at the prison as a mental health worker as well as teaching a poetry class, and I
				wanted to keep both occupations. Many of the women in my class were involved in the strike and were emphatic about the significance of their stand, although
				traditionally women at Riker's were notoriously apolitical, even downright reactionary. Strikes had taken place before, but on issues such as cosmetics (the women
				had wanted an Avon lady), more dances and recreation time or flashier products in
				commissary. </p>
			<p>This strike was different. The women were demanding, among other things, a legal
				library, an end to massive and lax prescription of "diagnostic" medication, decent
				food, and limitation of solitary confinement to three days. At the Women's House,
				where an old adage ran "all riots end at mealtime," this was pretty heady stuff.</p>
			<p>The article in <emph>The Village Voice</emph> (July 26, 1973) was supposed to get the world (or at
				least Manhattan) listening and to familiarize people with a woman's situation in
				prison: </p><p><quote>... incarceration for women is a somewhat different experience than it is
					for men. Male prisoners are expected to be political in one form or another,
					they are far better legally informed, and an atmosphere of "bonding" is
					prevalent. (They are also considered more "trainable"—more vocational rehab
					programs exist for men on Riker's Island.)</quote>
			</p>
			<p>The administration broke the back of the strike in its sixth day by separating the
				ringleaders, transferring them to different housing areas, or locking them in the
				"bing" (solitary). But it was too late. The article appeared and provoked a reaction
				from the community: pressure was put on the warden. A few of the women's demands
				were met: a legal library was established, kitchen conditions were improved, and
				other steps were taken. Someone from the class hand-printed a sign and put it up in
				the classroom: WORDS CAN TURN THEM AROUND. </p>
			<p>This was a milestone. I had been teaching the class for about a year and felt that
				although the women's response had been overwhelmingly enthusiastic, I was getting
				nowhere in the actual teaching of writing. It wasn't that the women were intimidated
				by the act of writing. Far from it. They wrote to keep mentally alive, to keep sane.
				When I first suggested the idea of a writing workshop to the warden, she scoffed at
				it. "These women don't write," she said. "They don't read. The overall educational
				level is poor. Reading, writing, comprehension... all very low." At the first class,
				I learned that all the women "wrote"—they came to class lugging diaries, journals,
				manuscripts full of long poems, ballads, stories. Everyone had a poem to "tell";
				poetry was a tradition; poems were written, read, copied by hand, and passed
				around—a publishing network. No one owned a poem. All the poems rhymed, and all were
				either sentimental love/religious verse or political rhetoric. My failure had been
				the inability to let them see alternatives: a poem was not always an escape, a
				fantasy, or a slogan, but a way into yourself, an illumination. Somehow the article,
				which was about them, about their very real lives in clear, simple language, did it.
				Someone said that a poem could be like reporting on your life, telling the story of your life—journalism of the soul. They tried out this approach. <persName>Millie Moss</persName>, who
				sat all day in front of the television watching commercials about getting away
				from it all and listening to the planes (one every three minutes) take off from La Guardia a few hundred yards across the water from the prison, wrote the first.
				(Millie had been a "hearts and flowers" verse writer: her poems were filled with
				giggly sunsets"): </p>
			<lg>
				<head>Fly Me, I'm Mildred</head><head/>
				<l>Finger my earring as I lean low</l>
				<l>over your bomber cocktail</l>
				<l>I've been known</l>
				<l>to put you on a throne</l>
				<l>send you off alone (not united)</l>
				<l>through the tomb-boom roar</l>
				<l>you get what you’re asking for</l>
				<l>when you fly me, honey,</l>
				<l>I'm Mildred.</l>
			</lg>
			<pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_033.jpg"/>
			<lg>
				<head>Personally</head>
				<l> So you spoke to me in silence</l>
				<l>in the ice man's choir </l>
				<l>and I dangled all the while</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>You said (in silence) </l>
				<l>live each day </l>
				<l>spittin' on Fifth Avenue </l>
				<l>fox-trottin' in hell... </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>So we ain’t home— </l>
				<l>we're together </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Smile: </l>
				<l>I take it personally</l>
			</lg>
			<p>They were on fire. I told them about <persName key="Osip Mandelstam" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q189950">Mandelstam</persName>, <persName key="Fyodor Dostoyevsky" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q991">Dostoyevsky</persName>, the long tradition of
				writers in prison. I read them poems. Another woman, <persName cert="high" type="real">Elizabeth Powell</persName>, came to class
				with a poem about homosexuality which was explicit, honest, and skillfully done.
				The class praised it—Elizabeth left the class that night, made a sheaf of copies by
				hand, and passed it "on the vine." </p><p>The next time I arrived at the prison, I was
				called into the warden's office. A member of my class, the warden said, had written
				a poem about her "unique perversion" and had implied, she said, that there were also
				correction officers who were homosexual, one in particular. She spoke of libel,
				telling me that I should have confiscated the poem immediately, or at least made
				sure that it didn’t go beyond the class. (Though homosexuality was indeed common—the "only game" in the prison, the warden steadfastly refused to admit that she had
				any more than a few "deviants" on her hands, whom she described as hard-core—in
				other words, gay even on the outside. Actually, as is the case in most women's
				prisons, homosexual relationships were standard even for straights, for the simple
				reason that human beings need physical intimacy and affection when they are confined
				to correctional institutions and cut off from relationships available to them
				outside the walls.)</p><p>Definitions of personal sexuality tend to change behind bars.
				Upon release, some women remain "changed," while the majority of former prisoners return to heterosexual lifestyles. The warden deeply feared homosexuality; any
				manifestation of "butch" conduct was enough to tag an inmate a troublemaker and
				"male attire" was expressly forbidden in the rules guide. Correction officers were
				warned not to wear pants to work, and thus their uniform remained skirted.
				(Although many C.O.'s were, in fact, gay, the atmosphere reflected the warden's
				artificial notion of femininity.)</p>
			<p>After this incident, I was informed that the poem had been confiscated and that
				Elizabeth Powell had been placed in solitary confinement pending a hearing by the
				disciplinary board. I was told that I would be allowed to continue the poetry class
				for the time being, but that if another incident like this took place, I would be
				asked to leave the prison. The warden sincerely hoped that I had "learned a
				lesson."</p>
			<p>I had. It was just as I had told them: a dramatic testimony to the power of
				words—and, I thought, one of the stupidest things I have ever done. It was easy for me
				to drop in and talk about "getting it down right" and being honest in writing—I went
				home every night. For me, there was no danger of being thrown in solitary, having my
				personal papers raided, or worse. It occurred to me that even when I had written my
				ever-so-honest article, I had used a pseudonym to protect myself. There were
				obviously bigger risks than job loss at stake for women or men who chose to write
				while incarcerated; risks I had clearly not understood. Words could indeed turn
				around the authorities, but could also turn them into the oppressors they actually
				were.</p>
			<p>Elizabeth Powell was in the bing for three weeks. When she came back to class, she
				was ready to go another round (she had written 25 poems, all dealing with
				homosexuality, while in lock), but I had made a decision. I explained how I felt as
				an outsider, with no right to tell them how to write in this volatile situation, but
				I asked that they make a distinction between public and private poems to protect
				themselves from exactly this kind of censorship/punishment. Private poems were,
				obviously, ones you could get thrown in the bing for; public poems could be
				"published." At this point, I also went back to the warden and told her she should
				not be surprised at some "emotional" poems; I described the class as "therapy" and
				she agreed that that was a good way of viewing it.</p>
			<p>The class flourished. The women began to express <emph>themselves</emph>, to find words underneath
				and in the midst of the gloss of everyday language. Some discovered (recovered?) a
				subterranean language like subway graffiti: the poem became a Kilroy, a zap: "I
				was here."</p>
			<p>I had quit my mental health worker job and was concentrating on expanding FREE SPACE,
				as the class had come to be called. The NEA had given us some funding, as did Poets
				&amp; Writers and some local banks. <persName>Linda Stewart</persName> of The Book-of-the-Month Club
				mailed boxes of overstocked paperback books; we amassed our own library and <persName cert="high" type="real">Ted Slate</persName> of <emph><title key="Newsweek" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q188413">Newsweek</title></emph> donated supplies and equipment.</p>
			<p><persName key="Tom Weatherly" ref="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_E._Weatherly_Jr.">Tom Weatherly</persName> taught a second poetry class, <persName>Gail Rosenblum</persName> taught fiction, and <persName cert="high" type="real">Fannie James</persName>, an ex-inmate, ex-student of the Space whom the warden actually allowed to
				come back to work with us, taught poetry and library skills. Each teacher learned to
				cope in his or her own way with the trials of trying to run a writing class in a
				prison. Each class was like a hypothetical leap: it would take place 1) IF the
				officer in <pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_034.jpg"/> the housing area remembered to announce it; 2) IF the women
				were there and not a) in court b) in solitary c) in another part of the prison d)
				watching television e) sleeping and/or drugged f) transferred to another floor g)
				transferred to another prison h) out on bail (good news); 3) IF the officer on
				hall duty okayed the passes; 4) IF the warden had not scheduled something else in your classroom (usually a course in etiquette); 5) IF there was no "contraband,"
				i.e., spiral notebooks (the wire is a potential weapon), chewing gum (jams locks),
				tweezers, or snap-top pens (another weapon—only ball points or pencils allowed).</p>
			<p>Somehow, the class took place and thrived. Visitors came to read and comment on
				student work: poets <persName key="Mae Jackson" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q87410543">Mae Jackson</persName>, <persName key="Daniela Gioseffi" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q5219218">Daniela Gioseffi</persName>, <persName key="Daniel Halpern" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q55941553">Daniel Halpern</persName>, <persName key="Audre Lorde" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q463319">Audre Lorde</persName>. For
				a long time, everyone learned. Information was taken in, absorbed—classes were spent writing and rewriting, letting off steam.</p>
			<p>Almost four years later, most of the women from the old class had been transferred or
				freed (detention women often spend two years waiting for trial), but emphasis was
				still placed on "getting along." We all stressed writing as craft. Classes were run
				as any <emph>outside</emph> workshop would be, except no one ever published anything.</p>
			<p>The poetry class at this time was full of women who were considered potential
				security threats—in other words, intelligent, outspoken, and funny. Some were
				"controversial" cases: <persName>Juanita Reedy</persName>, about to have her first child behind bars;
				<persName cert="high" type="real">Carole Ramer</persName> who had been busted with <persName key="Abbie Hoffman" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q306514">Abbie Hoffman</persName> and who had a lot to say about
				everything; <persName>Gloria Jensen</persName>, whose imagination was like a vaudeville show; Assata Shakur/Joanne Chesimard—alleged leader of the Black Liberation Army, brilliant and
				talented, with a <emph><title key="Cool Hand Luke" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q684150">Cool-Hand Luke</title></emph> aura of insouciance, compassion, and tenacity.
				(Assata was considered so dangerous that the prison required her to have a
				continual guard-escort.) These women were all good writers. They had learned craft
				and practiced it—and wanted more. They wanted to go further than "therapeutic"
				writing or workshop poems. They were writing dynamite.</p>
			<p>After four years, there was a huge pile of handwritten poems, Fannie's log with the
				names of every woman who had come to class, some incredible memories, and that was
				all. We went to the prison week after week and no one ever saw or heard what the
				women wrote: the voices were never heard outside, and on the inside, only in class.
				I began to feel that something had to give—no matter what risks were involved for
				the women (if they should decide to publish) and for FREE SPACE as a writing
				program. It was Catch 22—we were losing either way. At this stage, the women were
				denied the natural fulfillment of self-expression, which is publication. If we
				published their writing, however, we stood to lose the writing program itself. I
				began to fantasize about getting the word out: if people could only hear some of
				this stuff, I thought, no one would ever ask me again about either the <emph>quality</emph> of
				prisoners' writing or the reasons for running workshops in prisons. We would have
				evidence in writing. Best of all, the women would have the audience they deserved. I
				began to draft a rough script, a framework for some of the poems.</p>
			<p>What happened to Juanita Reedy made up everybody's mind about publication. Juanita
				went to Elmhurst Hospital to have her child and was treated so inhumanely that she
				refused to let prison doctors touch her upon her return. She wrote a poem about her
				experience, which she developed into a longer "Birth Journal." She published it in
				<emph><title key="Majority Report" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q106091070">Majority Report</title></emph>, the feminist journal. In the same issue there was an article about
				FREE SPACE and a poem by Carole Ramer. The issue began to circulate in the prison.
				Assata, inspired by Juanita, wrote her own "Birth Journal" and sent it to a major
				magazine. One night in class she read this poem:</p>
			<lg>
				<head><title>Butch </title></head>
				<l>You should have told me </l>
				<l> About your dick </l>
				<l> Stashed inside your bureau drawer</l>
				<l>I woulda believed you</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Ya say ya wanna be my daddy </l>
				<l>Ya say ya wanna be my daddy </l>
				<l> Ya say ya wanna be my daddy</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Yeah! Run it! I'm ready! </l>
				<l> My mamma warned me about you</l>
				<l> She taught me about you </l>
				<l> She beat me about you</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>But I thought you were a man...</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>And I lower my eyes </l>
				<l> And I lower my back</l>
				<l> And I swivel my hips </l>
				<l> And I lighten my voice </l>
				<l> And I powder my nose </l>
				<l> And I blue up my eyes </l>
				<l> And I redden my cheeks </l>
				<l> And I jump when you call </l>
				<l> And I cook and I knit</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>And I clean and I sew</l>
				<l> And it is all so cozy </l>
				<l> You lying in my arms</l>
				<l> (If I am not being too forward, </l>
				<l> too unladylike)</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>But who will know, anyway, </l>
				<l> That you were in my arms </l>
				<l> Not me in yours</l>
			</lg>
			<pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_035.jpg"/>
			<lg>
				<l>And if it comes to it</l>
				<l> To save face </l>
				<l> You can lie </l>
				<l> I'll back you up </l>
				<l> I've gotten very good at it lately</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>You should have told me </l>
				<l> About your status— </l>
				<l> I would have bowed to you </l>
				<l> What's one more bow, anyway?</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>I bow to the dollar </l>
				<l> I bow to the scholar </l>
				<l> I bow to the white house </l>
				<l> I bow to the church mouse </l>
				<l> I bow to tradition </l>
				<l> I bow to contrition </l>
				<l> I bow to the butcher </l>
				<l> I bow to the baker </l>
				<l> I bow to the goddamn </l>
				<l> lightbulb maker—</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Who the hell am I anyway </l>
				<l> Not to bow?</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>What else do I know how to do?</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>But you should have told me baby </l>
				<l> You should have hipped me momma </l>
				<l> I didn’t know you would pull it out </l>
				<l> And strap it on</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Fucking me mercilessly </l>
				<l> Long stroking me </l>
				<l> So that even my shadow is moaning</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>But damn baby </l>
				<l> I didn't know </l>
				<l> You coulda saved me the trip—</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>I thought I was on my way </l>
				<l> To a garden </l>
				<l> Where fruit ain’t forbidden </l>
				<l> Where snakes do not crawl to seduce </l>
				<l> I thought for a second </l>
				<l> That earth was a good thing </l>
				<l> That acting had played out </l>
				<l> And cotillions were outlawed </l>
				<l> That bingo was over </l>
				<l> And ladies had drowned in their tea </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>But now that I'm hip momma </l>
				<l> Come, fuck me.</l>
			</lg>
			<p>(Copyright Assata Shakur/Joanne Chesimard) </p>
			<p>Some of Assata's poems were accepted for publication in a literary magazine. Poets
				&amp; Writers gave us a grant to do an anthology of students' writing which Gail and
				I compiled. We published it through the Print Center in Brooklyn and called it <emph><title>Songs from a Free Space: Writings by Women in Prison</title></emph>. The anthology was sold in New
				York bookstores and distributed to the women in the classes. It contained some of the best work done in the classes.</p>
			<p>By now I had handed over a
				rough script to the poetry class and an idea about doing some kind of theater piece.
				The women put together a revue of loosely scripted poems, songs, and vignettes
				called <emph><title>Next Time</title></emph>. They memorized lines and improvised costumes. <persName>Karen Sanderson</persName>, a
				friend and videotape expert, arrived at the prison one Sunday with a crew of women
				(after endless haggling for permission; we told the Corrections Department that we
				needed the videotape as a rehearsal tool for a play) and taped for nine hours
				straight. Finally, after months of editing, a half-hour tape emerged which documents
				the poems, songs, love, and exasperation of some of these incredible women. (This
				tape is available to anyone interested.)</p>
			<p>In September 1975, FREE SPACE merged with ART WITHOUT WALLS, another arts project for
				women in prison. Now we were able to offer graphic arts and dance, in addition to
				having a larger staff. The publishing idea had fulfilled itself, a renaissance.
				Juanita had begun a book about her experiences; another woman, <persName cert="high" type="real">Isabelle Newton</persName>, was
				collecting her poems in manuscript. Then Assata, who had been held in solitary
				for one year in New Jersey, whose cell was raided by guards every day in search of
				contraband, and who had been beaten by the prison goon squad on numerous
				occasions, completed her book of poems and wrote two chapters of a book, an account
				of her arrest and life in prison. The warden stopped me in the hall one day and told
				me that she knew we were collaborating on a book with Assata and Juanita. She told
				me she hadn't forgotten the Elizabeth Powell case.</p>
			<p>On November 26, 1975, Gail was preparing to leave home to go to her fiction class
				(filled with new students) when the phone rang. It was Deputy Freeman, the WHD
				Program Director, who advised her not to come to class: the program had been
				cancelled. We were not allowed to do anything after that except to pick up our books
				and any program belongings; we couldn’t say good-bye to anyone or discuss plans for
				any of their work.</p>
			<p>Naturally, we are contesting this decision, but there isn't much hope in appealing a
				warden's whim. It is, after all, her turf. Official reasons for the cancellation
				were said to be duplication of services (they stated that the public school provided
				the same type of classes) and irregularity of classes. The warden refused, however
				to put these reasons in writing for us. </p><p>It is clear that the writing classes were
				taken seriously only when the women wrote seriously about their lives and <emph>published</emph>
				those writings. Poetry is safe, women are safe until they begin to make sense and
				communicate. Still, ART <pb facs="https://raw.githubusercontent.com/BucknellDSC/heresies/main/issue01/images/01_036.jpg"/> recognizes the possibilities of
				self-expression, perhaps the walls crack a little. Perhaps. Words can, indeed, turn
				them around, but sometimes having all the right words is small change. "Before
				despairing, speak of it," said a woman one day in class. Even when writing of
				despair there's the fact—named and held to the light for a moment—maybe even understood.</p>
			<p>WITHOUT WALLS/FREE SPACE is continuing to work at a children's center, a drug clinic,
				and another women’s prison. It’s important to maintain the lifelines between
				people on the outside and those inside.</p>
			<p>But what happened at the Women's House of Detention can easily happen again.
				Especially if publishing is, as it should be, part of the writing project. Prison
				writers have a right to be heard as does any writer. Their voices are too important to be missed. Publishing is part of the art of not bowing. Each time a man or
				woman in a cell</p>
			<lg>
				<head><title>Next Time </title>
					<lb/>(group poem from the videotape </head>
				<l>of the same name) </l>
				<l> You don’t hear me </l>
				<l> You don't see me </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>I'm the one just a step behind </l><l>you </l>
				<l> a split second before the light changes on the</l>
				<l> corner. </l>
				<l> The face that breaks the glass without a sound </l>
				<l> The hands that take your money on a </l>
				<l> screaming train uptown.</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Ladies. I had nowhere to take myself tonight </l>
				<l> Except to myself </l>
				<l> To my own face </l>
				<l> Reflected in yours </l>
				<l> And my own voice </l>
				<l> telling me </l>
				<l> THERE IS NO NEXT TIME FOR ANY OF US </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Just the husbands and families waiting </l>
				<l> Just the habits and fast money waiting </l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>The kids in the street</l> 
				<l>The kids in strangers' homes</l> 
				<l>The kids in our bellies</l> 
				<l>The kids we are inside</l> 
				<l/><l>And the lies we tell ourselves</l> 
				<l>To go on living</l> 
				</lg>
				<lg>
					<l>LISTEN</l> 
					<l>No one got over on you tonight</l> 
					<l>No one lied here tonight</l><l/> 
					<l>We told the truth</l> 
					<l>And the truth is what you see before</l><l>your eyes</l><l/> 
					<l>Ladies</l> 
					<l>Before you forget, ladies,</l> 
					<l>Till the "next time" My best.</l>
			</lg></div>
		</body>
		<back>
			<div><p>Carol Muske is a New York poet and assistant editor of Anteus. Her book, <title><emph>Camouflage</emph></title>,
				was published in 1975 (University of Pittsburgh Press). She directs the prison
				program Art Without Walls/Free Space at Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for
				Women.</p></div>
		</back>
	</text>
</TEI>

Moratorium: Front Lawn: 1970

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				<title>Moratorium: Front Lawn: 1970</title>
				<author>Kate Jennings</author>

<lg>
				<l>watch out! you may meet a real</l>
				<l>castrating female</l>
				<l>or</l>
				<l>you'll say I'm a manhating braburning</l>
				<l>lesbian member of the castration</l>
				<l>penisenvy brigade, which I am</l>
			</lg>
			<p>I would like to speak.</p>
			<p>I would like to give a tubthumpingtablebanging emotional rap AND be listened to, not
				laughed at. You don't laugh at what your comrade brothers say, you wouldn’t laugh at
				the negroes, the black panthers. Many women are beginning to feel the necessity to
				speak for themselves, for their sisters. </p><p>I feel the necessity now.</p>
			<p>It's the moratorium. l would say, oh yes, the war is bad a pig bosses war may the nlf
				win, I also say VICTORY TO THE VIETNAMESE WOMEN. Now our brothers on the left in the
				peace movement will think that what I am about to say is not justified, this is a
				moratorium. It's justified anywhere. We've heard you loud and clear before, brothershits, we know we have to work towards the Revolution and then join the <orgName>ladies liberation auxiliary</orgName> if we have any time left over. I've worked my priorities out, I
				will work towards what I know about, what I feel, and I feel because I'm told ad
				infinitum that I'm a woman, I'm a second-class citizen, and I should shutup right
				now because my mind's between my legs. I say you think with your pricks. We should
				all get our priorities straight and organise around our own injustices, our own condition. There are a lot of people here who feel strongly about the Vietnam war. But
				how many of you, who can see so clearly the suffering and misery in Vietnam, how
				many of you can see at the end of your piggy noses the women who can't get
				abortions, how many of you would get off your fat piggy asses and protest against
				the killing and victimisation of women in your own country. Go check the figures,
				how many Australian men have died in Vietnam, and how many women have died from
				backyard abortions. Yes, that's cool, they're only women, and you'll perhaps worry
				if your own chickie gets pregnant. Can you think about all the unwanted children, or
				the discrimination against unmarried mothers. Illegal dangerous abortions are going
				to be performed regardless. So make them legal. And to these women who think an
				abortion campaign, or women's lib for that matter, is reformist, I quote "in
				fighting for our liberation we will not ask what is revolutionary or reformist, only
				what is good for women" some of us are revolutionaries, some of us are manhunting
				crazies, but we are all working toward one thing, the liberation of women, and
				most of us will recognise that this will only happen in a socialist society.</p>
			<p>We all feel very strongly about conscription and freedom of the individual, some go
				to great lengths to martyr themselves on the issue of the draft. I don't feel very
				strongly anymore about the ego scenes of the <persName>mike jones</persName>'s around me. I do feel
				strongly about my freedom and my sisters' freedom. Women are conscripted every day
				into their personalised slave kitchens, can you, with your mind filled with the
				moratorium, spare a thought for their freedom, identity, minds and emotions, they're
				women, and your stomach is full. It suits you to keep women in the kitchens, and
				underpaid menial jobs, and with the children. You, by your silence, apathy and
				laughter sanction the legislators, the pig parliamentarians, the same men who
				sanction the war in Vietnam. You won't make an issue of abortion, equal pay, and
				child minding centres, because they're women's matters, and under your veneer you
				are brothers to the pig politicians. And I say to all you highminded intellectual
				women who say you're liberated with such force and conviction, I say you make me
				sick. So women's lib doesn’t concern you. Ask your companion what he would prefer—to
				talk to you or fuck you? (and if you say you'd prefer to be fucked, you've absorbed
				your conditioning well). And the women in the suburbs are no concern of yours? Your
				mother is no concern of yours? so long as you think you're liberated, all's well.
				You and your sisters and the silent suburban women are all part of a capitalist
				PATRIARCHAL society which you cannot ignore.</p>
			<p>And don't start to trust the sympathetic men who want a socialist society. Where will
				the women be after the revolution? Go, ask them, the men on the left stink—they
				stink from their motherfucking socks to their long hair, from their jock straps to
				their mao and moratorium badges. The ones who pretend to espouse our aims are far
				worse than those who at least wear their true colors on their sleeves. And to my
				brothers on the drug scene. Grass is good. Oh yes, but instead of becoming happy and
				peaceful and oh so motherfucking loving all I can see is you sitting there,
				asserting, even grooving on your maleness, dominating every joint every puff.
				Chickies aren't very good at rapping, aren't clever or subtle enough. I mean, it's a
				male scene, isn't it, you fat arrogant farts.</p>
			<p>Okay, I've stopped trying to love and understand my oppressors.</p>
			<p>I know who my enemy is.</p>
			<p>I will tell you what I feel, as an individual, as a woman.</p>
			<p>I feel that there can be no love between men and women.</p>
			<p>Maybe after the revolution people will be able to love each other regardless of skin
				color, ethnic origin, occupation or type of genitals. But if that happens it will
				only happen if we make it happen. Starting right now.</p>
			<p>I feel hatred.</p>
			<p>I feel anger.</p>
			<p>Without indulging in an equality or marxist argument I say all power to women
				because that's what I feel.</p>
			<p>ALL POWER.</p>
			<p>And I say to every woman that every time you're put down or fucked over, every time
				they kick you cunningly in the teeth, go stand on the street corner and tell every
				man that walks by, every one of them a male chauvinist by virtue of HIS birthright, tell them all to go suck their own cocks. And when they laugh, tell them that
				they're getting bloody defensive, and that you know what size weapon to buy to kill
				the bodies that you've unfortunately laid under often enough.</p>
			<p>ALL POWER TO WOMEN.</p>
		</body>
		<back>
			<p>"Kate Jennings is a feminist. She believes in what <persName key="Jane Austen" ref="http://www.wikidata.org/entity/Q36322">Jane Austen</persName> recommended at
				fifteen: 'Run mad as often as you chuse; but do not.'" This "biography" appears
				on the jacket of Jennings' book of poems (from which "Moratorium" is
				reprinted)—<title><title><title cert="high" level="m">Come to Me My Melancholy Baby</title></title></title>. published in 1975 by <orgName>Outback Press</orgName>,
				Fitzroy (Victoria), in her native Australia.
				</p>
		</back>

</text>
</TEI>

Do You Think

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				<title>Do You Think</title>
				<author>Jayne Cortez</author>

<lg>
				<l>Do you think this is a sad day</l>
				<l>    a sad night</l>
				<l>full of tequila  full of el dorado</l>
				<l>    full of banana solitudes</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>And my chorizo face a holiday for knives</l>
				<l>    and my arching lips  a savannah for cuchifritos</l>
				<l>and my spit curls a symbol for you</l>
				<l>    to overcharge  overbill  oversell me</l>
				<l>these saints  these candles</l>
				<l>    these dented cars  loud pipes</l>
				<l>no insurance and no place to park</l>
				<l>    because my last name is Cortez</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>Do you think this is a sad night</l>
				<l>    a sad day</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>And on this elevator</l>
				<l>    between my rubber shoes</l>
				<l>in the creme de menthe of my youth</l>
				<l>    the silver tooth of my age</l>
				<l>the gullah speech of my one trembling tit</l>
				<l>full of tequila  full of el dorado</l>
				<l>    full of banana solitudes you tell me</l>
				<l>i use more lights  more gas</l>
				<l>    more telephones  more sequins  more feathers</l>
				<l>more iridescent head-stones</l>
				<l>    you think i accept this pentecostal church</l>
				<l>in exchange for the lands you stole</l>
			</lg>
			<lg>
				<l>And because my name is Cortez</l>
				<l>    do you think this is a revision</l>
				<l>of flesh studded with rivets</l>
				<l>    my wardrobe clean</l>
				<l>the pick in my hair</l>
				<l>    the pomegranate in my hand</l>
				<l>14th street  delancey street  103rd street</l>
				<l>    reservation where i lay my skull</l>
				<l>the barrio of need</l>
				<l>    the police state in ashes</l>
				<l>drums full of tequila  full of el dorado</l>
				<l>    full of banana solitudes say:</l>
				<l>Do you really think time speaks english</l>
				<l>    in the mens room</l>
			</lg>
		</body>
		<back>
			<p>Jayne Cortez was born in Arizona and grew up in the Watts Community of Los Angeles.
				She is the author of three books of poetry—<title key="Pissstained Stairs and the Monkey Man's Wares" ref="https://www.worldcat.org/title/pissstained-stairs-and-the-monkey-mans-wares/oclc/119044"><emph><title>Pissstained Stairs and the Monkey Man's Wares</title></emph></title> (1969), <emph><title>Festivals and Funerals</title></emph> (1971), <title><emph><title>Scarifications</title></emph></title> (1973), from which this
				poem is reprinted, and a recording — <title key="Celebrations and Solitudes" ref="https://www.discogs.com/release/1052679-Jayne-Cortez-Celebrations-And-Solitudes"><emph><title>Celebrations and Solitudes</title></emph></title> (Strata East Records, 1975).</p>
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